XI. Franklin's Last VoyageThis drizzling three-day January thaw,XXI. Flying in the ArcticOnly whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman Toward something that the world is pointing towardIts consciousness of my white consciousness,Only a fox whose den I cannot find.In search of brighter green to come. No way!Seen. What you know is only manifestStars, the last day, endless and centerless,Blurring the terrain,IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
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